Blood Will Have Blood
by PippinStrange
Summary: Joan Sailor can manipulate blood. For years, she has dealt with the guilt and blame for her younger brothers death. It's time to travel to Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters like any young mutant searching for answers. Complications await. RR
1. Prologue and Dialogue

Dear Readers:

I saw the X Men trilogy for the first time this weekend, and I can't believe what I've missed. I was so impressed and am now OBsessed. I saw Wolverine in theaters but didn't understand the epicness of the trilogy behind it. So now, I am trying my hand at the genre. I hope to make Serena Kenobi proud haha. :)

Lemme know what you think!

-Pippin

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**...**

**Prologue**

**...**

**It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.  
William Shakespeare **

**...**

I was nine years old. My brother, age eight, sat beside me on the garden bench. We were swinging our legs, pretending to be on the railing of a pirate ship.

"Can you see the flag?" he asked, pointing across the bare yard. I could see a wide sea before us; crystal blue and inviting. The enemy ship had run up a white flag.

"I can, but they surrender," I said, brandishing a stick and standing up. "The cowards well let us take their ship without a fight!"

"It could be a trap," said Tim, standing as well. "We'll go around the left."

"Starboard side," I corrected.

"That's not starboard," he argued.

"Yes it IS!" I whined.

"No it's NOT!" Tim growled, holding his stick to my neck. "I'm Captain. I say it's not."

"Then this is a mutiny," I cried, smacking his stick with my own. A fierce mock duel began, carrying us parry by block across the entire yard.

Timmy held up a hand for us to pause our game when we got over to the rosebushes. "Hold on," he panted. "Time out. Time out."

"You tired?" I asked.

"Yeah!" Tim sighed, waving his hand. He sat on the ground. "I don't like the mutiny. Let's not play sea voyage. We could be on the island instead?"

"I guess," I grumbled. I had really wanted to win the duel. "But I get to find the treasure."

"Fine. It's your turn, anyway."

I got up and ran over to the garden shed. It was one of those olive green houses made of sheet metal that you bought for 300 dollars at Costco. It was six feet tall and five feet wide, but for us, it felt like a great cavern.

"This is where the map has been leading us," I stated, feeling high and mighty. Tim got out the map from his pocket quickly and held it out as if he'd had it all along.

"You're right—the shed in Crab Canyon," Tim adlibbed. In a whisper, he added, "Joan, we're not supposed to go in the shed. Dad says so."

"Dad's not here," I snapped. "And we're not really going in, we're just pretending. We won't touch anything." I opened the door and stepped into the dusty, cobwebbed darkness. Tim followed shyly.

"So where's the treasure?" he asked doubtfully, glancing fearfully towards the house.

"Up there!" I pointed to a shelf shrouded in shadows. I stepped up onto the seat of the riding lawn mower and clambered aboard. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I was feeling rebellious. Besides, it was just pretend, wasn't it?

Timmy stood next to the lawn mower, beneath the shelf. He watched me with a respectful gaze. "Wow, what is up there? I've never seen up there!"

"Just old tools," I grumbled. Then I spotted an old tin can with holes in it—Dad had used it for target practice. But it was shiny, and it could be the treasure.

"I found it!" I said righteously. I leaned forward, grasped the tin can with my small fingers. As I pulled it towards me, something emerged from the thick layer of brown dust. An old rusty hammer, hiding beneath the dirt, was between the can and the shelf's edge. Unable to react quickly enough, I had already jerked the tin can to my chest—consequently knocking the hammer down—where Timmy watched expectantly from below.

I opened my mouth to warn him, but the it had already fallen. Timmy, looking up towards me with those big blue eyes…

He crumpled to the ground.

I screamed. I jumped to the ground and grabbed his shoulders, and flipped him onto his back. Timmy was trembling with shock. "What was that?" he asked softly.

"Timmy, Timmy, Timmy," I was young. I was hysterical. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to act.

A nasty wound on his scalp was pouring blood. I'd seen a lot of movies—pressure was what it needed, right? And didn't head wounds bleed a lot more but weren't really that serious?

I reached my hands towards him. But then something happened. It felt as if someone was threaded a thick string through the tips of my fingers, tugging at an invisible force. The closer my fingers came towards his head, the more blood spilled out.

"Timmy," I whispered in horror, pulling my hands back. The bleeding instantly slowed. I reached for him again, and the blood began to flow like a bursting of the dam.

"MOM!" I screamed. I screamed louder and louder. I grabbed Timmy's hands and dragged him towards the door. Timmy was crying. I was crying. I was screaming.

Over and over and over.

I laid my head on Timmy's chest. I could hear the screen door slamming, and my mother's sudden gasp.

"God, Timmy! Joan! No…"

I lifted my head, and the entire side of my face was crimson and sticky. I looked at Timmy's face. It was frozen and pale. I reached for him again—and instantly, the tingling sensation burned in my fingertips again.

Suddenly, with a horrific splatter, something burst and I was showered in blood. It felt as if I had pulled a rubber band until it snapped.

"JOAN! GET AWAY FROM HIM!" My mother was screaming. "GET AWAY! GET AWAY!"

Something broke inside of me. I was being alienated. Sent away, like a kid. She thought I was hurting him.

"I'm not doing it on purpose," I screamed, crawling backwards, away from Timmy's side.

Mom was calling 911.

"Mommy," I sobbed wretchedly, holding my hand towards her. She was bent over Timmy's body, rattling off information to the phone in a hysterical tone. She was ignoring me.

"Mommy!" I cried, reaching farther. I didn't want to get too close. I just wanted her to take my hand.

Suddenly, my fingers felt like they were on fire—in a good, adrenaline rush kind of way. My eyes widened in horror as blood rose from Timmy's skull, floating in the air like particles of fog. As I retracted, the pinkish fog floated towards me. Mom was whispering our address to the phone now, watching in utter disbelief.

I balled my hands into fists, trying to make it stop. The blood clotted and formed three or five small blobs of red, floating in midair.

I shut my eyes.

I could hear them splash softly on the grass as my invisible grip loosened.

Mom covered the mouth piece.

"Joan," she said calmly, urgently. "I want you to lay down. Shut your eyes. Do not move—whatever happens."

It was one of those voices you always obey. I fell backwards against the grass and covered my eyes with my hands, whispering, "Timmy… Timmy… Timmy…"

Mom wanted me out of the way. She was protecting Timmy from me. But I wasn't going to hurt him. Was I? What had I done?

When the paramedics came, Mom sent me to the kitchen. My entire being shook in fear and grief when a policeman sat across from me and asked me what happened. I didn't lie to him.

But I didn't tell him that I could feel myself lifting Tim's blood with my fingers.

In a single moment, I could tell what kind of blood type people had in the room. I could hear it pulsing in their veins. I could hear the sounds of their arteries working.

I knew that if I wanted to move their blood, I could make a person walk where I wanted them. These were instincts. In a matter of milliseconds, it was a sense that felt as normal as touching, hearing, or speaking.

I knew I could drain a person of their blood and make them die…

Just like I had killed Timmy.

The man in the suit explained to Mommy that Timmy had died under unusual and mysterious circumstances, and then I knew for sure it was my fault.

"Timothy may have lived," he said, "From a small tool falling from a small height such as that. It caused so little damage. But from what I can describe to you," he leaned forward and whispered this, "It's like he was bled by something to death. Like something made him to bleed faster, the blood was drawn from him forcefully, like a vacuum. It doesn't make any sense. And we can't solve this mystery any farther than what I've told you now."

It was my fault. The way Mommy looked at me after that—she knew it was my fault. Mom and Dad still said they loved me. But they were scared.

And I knew I would have to live with that for the rest of my life.

...

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**...**

**LOCAL BOY KILLED IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT**

**...**

Timothy Sailor, age eight, was playing with his sister Joan when a hammer fell from a shelf and struck him in the head. His mother, Helene Sailor, heard Joan crying for help and called 911.

"Joan pulled him out of the garden shed and into the yard," she stated in the first public appearance by the family last Friday. "She tried to help, but… it was too late. Timmy was already dying when the paramedics arrived. He lost too much blood in a very, very short time."

In an eye-opening statement released by the police, 9-year-old Joan Sailor was quoted to have said at the scene—"I know we weren't allowed to play in [the garden shed] but it was only pretend! We were playing pirates."

When asked how the hammer fell, Joan admitted that she knocked it off the shelf by accident while she was getting "the treasure"—a tin can.

"A child's imagination can be a very dangerous thing," commented renowned child psychologist and counselor, Abigail Grimes. "Joan tried to help Timothy, but it only aggravated the wound, causing him to bleed much faster."

Abigail Grimes was moved by the news of Timothy's death, and has offered the Sailor family six weeks of free counseling.

The paramedics that responded to the scene described the death as unusual and, to a point, mysterious. "The hammer opened a large incision in his scalp and left a crack about a centimeter long in his skull," James Parker, who has been with squad 42 since 1997, replied in an email. "For some odd reason, Tim remained conscious but had bled to death in a manner of seconds. There is nothing medical we can use to explain that away. I give my best wishes to the family and hope research can, one day, give them closure for this unusual death."

That research may come sooner than they think. A St. John's Memorial Children's Hospital research facility has been opened, and donations can be made under the Timothy Sailor Fund. Any questions can be sent to the email address below.

A funeral service for Tim will be held two weeks from now, details to follow.

...

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**...**

**Chapter One**

**Dialogue**

**...**

[EIGHT YEARS LATER]

...

I opened the door to the house, hating this routine more than anything. The house was kept icy cold—purposefully, of course. I had a hard time maneuvering in colder conditions. I walked through the house and heard nothing—maybe my parents weren't home. Feeling relieved and wanting something to eat, I wandered into the kitchen.

I was happy too soon. My father, your average middle-aged workaholic who spent too many hours in a cubicle, sat at the kitchen table with his back to me.

"Have you submitted your application to the University of Pennsylvania?" Dad asked, not making eye contact as he thumbed through the stack of mail.

"No, I'm only a junior," I replied, slamming my backpack into a chair. Secretly, I'm glad this is how I'm greeted when I get home from school in the afternoons—if he's talking to me, he's in a good mood. Usually I hear nothing from him at all.

"You've got to get started early," Dad glanced up, eyebrows furrowed. "The undergraduate nursing programs get filled quickly."

"I don't want to be a nurse," I growled under my breath.

"A surgeon?"

"Nothing," I snapped. "I don't want to be anything. I don't want to work in a hospital. I don't want to be near any of that."

"But we talked about this," Dad stood up and put on the firm, disciplinary tone. "Your mother and I agreed that this was what was best for you. In order to-ahem, control your mutations—you needed a career that would teach you to help people."

"Versus destroying them, right?" I said sarcastically.

Dad closed his eyes as if I'd punched him in the gut. "We don't blame you for what happened to Tim."

"Yes you do," I said, shaking my head at how quickly this conversation had spiraled into a replica of millions of others that we'd had over and over. "I see it every day in your eyes. The way you scoot to the other side of the hallway when I walk by you. The way Mom looks at me if she gets a freaking paper cut. You blame me more than nature!"

But I had never said anything like that before.

Dad's mouth was hanging open.

"What? Can't handle the truth?" I opened the fridge and looked into its chilled interior. "Ha. Typical. Nothing to eat. You know—you can't starve my ability out of me."

"It's not an ability," Dad said, quivering in anger. "It's a curse. And you know it."

"How can I not? You won't let me forget. Every day it's the same thing. 'Someday when you're a nurse' or 'where's that application' or 'oh look, an article in the newspaper about one of those horrible mutants'. Don't think I don't know what mind games your playing. You want me to hate myself so that I'll become a doctor and you can feel good about yourself. You'll think—ah, our murderous daughter is using her life-and-death power for good! Now I can rest at night!"

"That's not true."

"Dad, it IS true. Stop lying to yourself."

"We just want what is best for you."

"What's best for me is that you leave me alone to do what I want in life."

"Like THAT'S going to get you anywhere. You're seventeen—you're too immature to make those choices."

"If I decided to use my powers for selfish reasons, I would be SO beyond looking to YOU to make my decisions for me," I said darkly. "Don't test me on this."

Dad looked genuinely scared. "What? Would you hurt me like you did Tim?"

"See, you DO blame me," I slammed the fridge door. "You've just admitted it. I'm not going to hurt you. I just wanted to remind you that I don't have to listen to you. Think about it." I grabbed an orange out of the fruit basket and faced my father, who shook and leaned against the chair. "It's not like I have your love and support to remind me why I want to be dutiful and obedient."

Dad frowned. "That's not fair."

"So it's not fair for me to ask for you guys to just love me because I killed my little brother?"

"I've never heard you talk like this before."

"That's because you rarely talk to me. And when you do, I always shut down after the part where you pressure me to become a doctor."

Dad said nothing.

"You've got this queer idea that if I get a job in the medical world, it'll erase what happened. But Tim isn't coming back. I'm not going to save a bunch of little boys lives so it'll comfort you that other parents aren't going through your trauma. I don't want to work in that lifestyle—catering to your expectations when its clear nothing I do will ever please you. I can hardly stand the sight of you."

Dad stepped towards me. "Joan. You misunderstand what we want."

"That's not the only thing you misunderstand," I retaliated. "You misunderstand what I can do. You think saving lives is going to make my so-called 'curse' go away. It won't. I can control it, and I do. I made some poor kid's knee stop bleeding after a skateboarding accident at school today. Do you take the time to say your proud of me? Of course not. It's not enough to you. You want me to have a profession that will replace what I am. Being a nurse won't make me normal. I'll always be a mutant. And you'll always be the parent that'll wish it was me who died instead of Tim."

"I can't believe you just said that," Dad stammered.

"Yeah, well, it's been like, nine years coming," I grabbed my backpack and walked away quickly. "Sorry for being so honest with you." I stomped through the living room, fled up the stairs, and slammed my door so hard that a crack showed up in the doorframe.

That's what happens when my blood boils with any heightened emotion. My force goes from a hundred and twenty pound weakness to the peculiar strength of a football quarterback. Nothing too crazy. Just a little property damage sometimes.

If only my father knew that I had tried, time and time again, to suppress my abilities—he may forgive me. A little. But all he knew was what I could do, and how any false move could give him a bad name and make me look even more unlovable in his eyes.

...

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_May 4__th__, 2005_

_Dear Friend,_

_Today I realized I could make someone's eyes bloodshot by concentrating directly on their irises without blinking. How'd I find out? Ha. Well—George and I had a staring contest. We were just joking around. Then his eyes turned red—and, well, I started apologizing, and George thought that was super weird. He attributed it to allergies and laughed at me for acting like it was my fault. Oh, Georgie Porgie, if only you knew._

_So that's something to add to the list so far._

_Drawing blood from someone_

_Suppressing bleeding_

_Move a person where I want them by controlling the blood in their veins_

_Telling blood type and reading emotions pretty well. _

_Causing eyes to go blood shot by too much eye contact_

_Hearing arteries, organs, veins, and brains working. But most of all I can hear a heart beat and how fast or slow it is going. _

_Make blood fly through the air like fog, raindrops, or a wave (if there was enough). _

_Heightened emotion causes more strength than usual. Not like superhero strength crap—but definitely more like a muscle dude than a small girl like me._

_I can reduce blushing…?_

_Yesterday, Mathilda got embarrassed and I helped her blushing go down—in fact, she was nearly green and her date thought she was about to faint—but it drew the attention away from the fact she got embarrassed about the price tag still being on her new dress. _

_Ugh, I try to help. But I have a hard time controlling what I am doing. I know WHAT I'm doing—but the details are hard to get JUST right. _

_BLEH! :(_

_PS: Had a fight with Dad today. I can't even begin to describe it. Let's just say it was like the time I tried to explain to Mom that I couldn't magically cure blood diseases like diabetes. I can only manipulate it, not change what's in it. _

_Basically, Dad is still trying to get me to go to the University of Pennsylvania. We had a huge blow out and I called him on all the crap he's ever pulled on me. _

_I don't know how I can live here for another year and a half. _

_Love, Joan. _

_PS: I know you're just a diary and not really a friend. Deal with it. You're the only one I've got who knows the truth._

_..._

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...

I flipped back to the beginning of the journal—made from an old scrapbook. Pictures and clippings about mutants decorated the pages, and lined notepaper was glued in for the written entries. I let my fingers glide over the article about Tim's death for a moment, and then slammed the book shut.

The doorbell rang. I threw the book under my bed, left the room quickly, and ran downstairs to see who it was. We rarely got visitors.

My parents were both standing by the front door, which was wide open and letting the sunshine and warmth into our dark, refrigerated home.

On the porch was a bald man in a wheelchair.

"Hello. Joan Sailor, I presume?" the man held out a hand to shake mine, scooting his electric chair with a whir into the house. My parents seemed stunned and weren't saying anything—and certainly hadn't invited him in.

"My name is Charles Xavier," he said with a reassuring smile—I was unaware as to why he felt the need to assure me. "I am a professor at a school for the gifted."

...

...

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**Should I continue? Do you like it? Leave me a review!**


	2. Gifted

Dear Readers

Thank you so much for your kind feedback! I do hope you enjoy this next installment :)

Leave me reviews!

Love,

Pippin

PS: Warning: mild language in this chapter.

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**All the soarings of my mind begin in my blood.****  
****Rainer Maria Rilke**

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**Chapter Two**

**Gifted**

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…

"My name is Charles Xavier," the bald man leaned forward in his chair, "I am a professor at a school for the gifted."

"Uh—Hiram Sailor. This is my wife, Helene." Dad said, shutting the door behind the peculiar man in wheels. "How do you know Joan?"

"I've never seen you before," I said awkwardly.

"Obviously," said the man, smiling, and shaking my parents hands one by one. "But I am very pleased to meet you now." He held out his hand to shake mine. I looked at it, hesitating. Then I shook it, and something felt oddly warm about his hand—as if every secret I'd ever had was suddenly exposed in the palm of my hand, and he had access to it all.

"The gifted?" my father jumped right to the point that would, clearly, be the one that bothered him from the get-go. "What do you mean by a school for the gifted?"

"Mutants," Xavier said clearly, smiling, as if not ashamed to say it. "My school is a place where a young person, such as your daughter, can live and learn in an environment geared specifically towards her talents."

"Talent?" My mom said, horrified. "You think this is a talent? And how do you know, anyway? Have you been stalking our daughter?"

"I found her," Xavier said simply, his voice taking a gentler tone. "And I sense that, perhaps, her current situation is not about her learning to use her abilities properly—learning control, application, and use."

Dad was instantly interested. "This school is a place where she can learn to use her—ability…" (it nearly killed him to not use the word 'curse') "For good?"

"Exactly," Xavier said, pleased at how they had responded.

"I'm not going," I interjected.

"Hold on, hold on, let's not make any rash decisions," Mom said worriedly. "How did you find her? And what makes you think she is gifted?"

Xavier looked at them steadily. "Your daughter is not an average human being. Surely you can acknowledge that."

They both nodded dumbly.

"I am offering her a place where she can be amongst other students of her kind. The education is like that of any high school, but the subject material is for _life! _I myself teach a philosophy class—a class of the mind. Within each subject, the students can learn to apply their gifts to it—or know how each subject applies to them, and the world around them. We provide dorms and food—it is like a private school education. The classes are not difficult, but what is being taught are things found in most universities, giving your daughter a head-start on most children her own age. But we also teach survival—defense—and let me restate, _control_—something highly needed among teenager mutants today."

"Control," Dad repeated, "Something like if she were to learn how to be a nurse or something. Using her powers for good. That's what you mean, right?"

_He just had to use the term 'nurse' specifically, _I thought angrily.

"That's the general idea, minus the specifics," Xavier winked at me. The movement was so quick my parents didn't know it—but I instantly wondered just what kind of 'powers' this unassuming old Dumbledore had in HIS brain.

"Well, go on, we're listening." Dad stepped out of the entry and motioned for Mom and I to sit down on the couch. Professor Xavier's chair purred quietly up to the coffee table and Dad sat down, folding his hands and pressing his fingertips like a gunpoint to his lips. "Now sir, how do we know any of this is real? We don't hear a lot of GOOD things in the papers about mutants, and so forgive us for not being able to tell the bad sort from the good sort."

"It's such a gray area, isn't it?" I seethed.

"Joan," Mom said warningly.

Professor Xavier handed Dad a packet of papers. Inside was a brochure for the campus, a class schedule, room information, an issue of US Weekly from last year that did a spread on the school and its headmaster—which, consequently, was Xavier.

"And I'm sorry about this one," Professor Xavier chuckled, "But I include it to assure parents of its legitimacy." He handed them an issue of Time Magazine—the entirety of its contents dedicated to mutants, their struggles, schooling available, mutants in the media and politics—and his school was at the top of the suggested list for higher education _in the world. _

"I remember when that came out!" I grabbed the magazine from the stack and opened it eagerly. "That was… four months ago."

_Dad hadn't let me buy it—he thought it'd inspire me to 'come out of the mutant closet' to my friends and extended family. _

"It's a shame you didn't read it when it was first printed," Xavier looked at me steadily. "It is a good read, if I do say so myself. I think the short notice about my school and its teachers is my favorite part—but, I AM biased."

Mom laughed politely, but it was forced and awkward. I narrowed my eyes at Xavier—he was reading my thoughts. I could tell. That was his power. And he knew I knew, too.

In fact, he was doing it on purpose. He was finding a common ground with me—he wanted me to go to his school. He could see that my parents were, of course, going to agree—it meant that they would finally get rid of me, I wouldn't be their responsibility anymore—but what he REALLY wanted was for me to agree. He believed I had the final say.

"This is exactly what I've been trying to explain to Joan," My Dad spoke to the Professor like I was his beloved daughter that was too young to really know the wisdom these little adults shared in their secret circle of maturity. "I've been talking to her about utilizing her powers for the benefit of society. She's been a little resilient to the idea," Dad patted my knee in a show of kindness, only for the benefit of Xavier's approval of our family ties. "But I know she'll come around. I bet she'd love to be with a bunch of other students more like her—don't ya think, Joan?"

I could sense his emotions recoil at the thought of patting my knee, and as I read his body language cover his negativity with a false show of affection and watering down our earlier 'discussion'—I could sense Xavier's feelings change as well. His heart rate increased a little. His emotions were difficult to read—it almost felt like a protectiveness. A wish to help me. Something about him was like a shield—he was drawing me in to a different kind of world for the better, but the pure human side of him wanted to protect me from my own parentage.

"Sure," I said stiffly.

"Wouldn't that be nice, dear?" Mom said to me. "Leave the nest for awhile, let old Mom and Dad miss ya and learn to—ahem—spread your wings a bit?"

"I am just starting my junior year this fall," I replied, "What exactly do I do?"

"It's a transfer," Professor Xavier said. "Very easy to do in September. I can help with all the official parts. I have all the paperwork here. Of course I am not asking you to make any decisions now…"

"I think the answer is yes," Dad said quickly. "Helene? Joan? I think we're all in agreement here. This may be hard for you to understand at your age, Joan, but what your Mom and I wish—what I told you earlier—is for you to learn to help others with your cur—gift. Your gifts. We want what is best for you."

"Like hell you do," I mumbled.

"Joan!" Mom cried, affronted.

"Where's your paperwork?" I said, rummaging through the stack on the coffee table. "As long as they're paying for it, I'm signing up. Anything has got to be better than here, right?"

"My school is a good place," Professor Xavier said, "Whether or not it is better depends entirely on you."

I took the point—and the ball point pen he offered. I skimmed a paper of consent signed my name in chunky, 'I don't give a damn bout my bad reputation' type of handwriting.

"In case you find this fact interesting…" Professor Xavier looked at my signature with a hidden smile. "I might also add that we have the room and board available during the summer as well. In case a student is interested in learning the new routines before school starts, or something of the sort. Some people like a month or so before they call the mansion Home."

"The mansion…?" My mother sighed in awe.

"Where's the paper to sign up for that?" I asked quickly.

…

…

* * *

_May 16__th__ 2005_

_Dear Friend,_

_You wouldn't believe what I am about to do._

_My bags are packed. A huge rolling suitcase with wheels, a medium sized duffle, my backpack, and a small box of essentials—to be exact. My books and school supplies are in boxes that are being shipped to the school, so they will be waiting for me when I get there. _

_I am leaving for a school JUST FOR MUTANTS today._

_Professor Xavier, the mastermind who convinced—or magically possessed, or tricked—my parents into letting me go, said it's a MANSION._

_LORDY! _

_What will it be like being with other mutants? Think maybe they killed their favorite person, their best friend, their better half, their little brother… like me? _

_Doubtful, but who knows. It's not like I'm going to tell any of them anyways. In fact, I'm mostly going for the education. I don't use my powers daily—or at least, not consciously. There isn't any reason to use it amongst others like me. I'll probably just be like a human in their midst. I guess I am hoping that I will be inconspicuous. _

_On the next page I am posting those TIME and US Weekly covers. And the brochure—as a visual representation. I feel like a kid who just got her Hogwarts letter… but was once Voldemort and knows everyone else hates the guy. Know what I mean? _

_Of course you do. You're just an extension of my brain. _

…

…

* * *

**United Airlines**

…

_Dear Friend,_

_At the airport, when I said goodbye to my parents, Dad shook my hand and said he was proud that I was choosing to be a servant to my curse instead of using it for selfish reasons. Mom kissed my cheek and said to eat healthy foods. _

_I think they're really going to miss me, right? Haha. _

_I took my backpack (with my box inside) as carry-ons, the rest went into the maze of suitcases. I hope they don't get lost. _

_We're taxiing onto the runway now in New York. I have never been outside Portland before—much less traveled to the East Coast. I've never flown by myself. I've never done anything. _

_I am scared sh**less. _

_Random thought? The old lady sitting next to me didn't talk to me for the whole plane ride. She was too busy worrying about her diabetes. People's thoughts feel almost telepathically available to me if they're worrying about their own blood. Or maybe I'm just observant enough to notice that there was something really off in her veins, I could sense that… but she was also reading a brochure called 'How to Talk about Diabetes'. _

_Someone sitting near the front of the plane has heart trouble. Couldn't identify it, but I felt badly for him, nevertheless. _

_OK—so next, I am supposed to get off at the airport in New York city. There is a taxi cab waiting for me already (Mom and Dad called it in and pre-arranged that part) and it is going to drive me to the train station. It's a two hour train ride to Westchester, where Professor Xavier assured me someone would pick me up. It's another twenty minute ride or so to the school—which is out in the country._

_In case this has been the most cleverly elaborate ruse of all time and he is a murderer and I am willingly stepping into his games and setting myself up to be the next victim…_

_I leave my scrapbook to George, my only slightly close friend, with instructions to share it with my aunt and uncle, who actually live in New York City and have promised to visit the school after I get settled. That's really all I've got for a last will and testament, haha. If I get killed by a bald, leg-less schemer, then I'll make two people really happy. _

…

* * *

**New York, New York**

_Time to panic. There's the cab dude. I really am going to do this. I'm going to meet other mutants for the first—well, second time, counting Xavier—in my life! I can't believe I'll be spending the summer in a mansion dormitory with people my own age. I wonder if I can get a job in Westchester. Or do mutants work? Are you allowed, as an upper classman, to leave the campus and make income? Shoot, I never thought to ask that. I hope so._

**

* * *

Westchester, New York**

…

I slept for most of the train ride and just listened to my ipod. I felt bored and nauseous with nerves. The butterflies in my stomach couldn't be calmed no matter how hard I concentrated.

When the train stopped, I shoved my box into my backpack, grabbed my duffel, and clambered down onto the platform. I watched the luggage get unloaded until I spotted my suitcase. I gave the uniformed man my name, then hefted its handle into the air and jerked it along, its rusty wheels squeaking behind me.

"Joan Sailor?" said a voice. I turned around and almost snorted with laughter. Could a mutant be more obvious?

"My name is Storm," said the dark skinned woman kindly. She was crazy tall, slim, and sexy. Her hair was pure white and pointy in all directions. She was wearing jeans and a black top—but the knee-high stiletto boots were almost too much. I wanted to ask her if she meant to say Catwoman, but refrained.

"Joan," I said huskily. "You're with the, uh, school, right?"

"Here, let me take that for you," catwoman took my duffel and threw it over her shoulder effortlessly. "My car is right over here."

"So, your name is Storm?" I questioned. "Can I take a wild guess as to what you do?"

"I don't leave much up to the imagination," she chuckled.

I glanced at her outfit. "Right. So you can control the weather?"

"I can, yes."

"Cool."

"What about you?" she asked. She was just making conversation at this point—I could tell she knew already. After all, if she's a teacher, surely Xavier explained me away already.

"Blood manipulation, emotion reading, and a tiny bit of strength that doesn't seem to fit my body type." I rattled it off as if I didn't care. But I already felt uncomfortable with the degree of vulnerability that it came with.

"So how do you use it?" Storm asked, approaching a flashy sports car. She hit a button with her keys, and with a friendly beep, the headlights blinked and the trunk whirred open.

I couldn't believe that was really her car. Did these people just have money to burn, or what? My eyes grew huge at the sight of the shining blue paint job, the yellow sport stripe, the spoiler on the back…

Storm put my duffel in the trunk. "Hey! Wana stick that thing back here?"

I wheeled the suitcase over and heaved it into the spacious trunk. I dumped my backpack as well and with a beep, the trunk closed automatically.

"Uh, my abilities?" I clarified. "Well, uh, I don't really use them."

"It's instinct, of course you use them," Storm laughed again. "What do you find yourself doing that is the most… abnormal?"

_Living with the thought that I killed my brother? _

"Usually listening to the sounds of blood pumping," I shrugged. "Heart rates. I can identify a few health problems. I made a girl stop blushing in front of her crush few weeks ago."

"That's a good start," Storm shut the door, stuck the key in the ignition, and grinned as the engine purred to life. "I like to go fast. Buckle up."

…

…

The ride only seemed minutes the way Storm drove. I found myself holding on for dear life.

When we drove under an arch, past the stone wall surrounding the school's campus, I could finally see the mansion in its entirety.

I couldn't keep my jaw from hitting the ground.

"This is too fancy to be a school," I said in disbelief. "Least of all ones that my parents would pay for."

"Maybe they think you deserve the best," Storm said light-heartedly.

I didn't bother to correct her.

The mansion was sprawling… a castle. It had a tower near the middle, like a palace turret, and the roof leveled off in elaborate carvings to grace the top of three—or four? Or five?—stories. The windows were big, the grounds were green and well kept. There was a huge fountain, a lake, a basketball court…

"This is impossible," I said.

"Ah, but this is just the superficial part," Storm was loving my reaction. "Just wait till you move in and meet your future peers—remember there are very few here now, many of the students go home for the summer. Some have no home to return to, and those ones stay with us. We're really a family. And I'd like to be the first to say welcome." She gave my shoulder a squeeze and drove around towards the side of the mansion, where a garage door was opening automatically. She parked alongside of an entire line of fancy cars.

"I've got to ask," I said, stepping out of the car as soon as it was off. "What the heck is with all these fancy schmancy cars?"

"I guess a lot of us have a weakness for fancy cars," Storm admitted, shrugging. She popped open the trunk and retrieved my bags. She took the heavier one and chucked my duffel at me teasingly. I caught it in a hug to keep it from flying past me and gave her a polite smile.

"Well… I guess better fancy cars than drugs, right?" I forced a laugh.

Storm gave me a confused smile and snorted. "I'm sure."

…

First thing upon entering the mansion—(through the front, spacious doors, not the side entrance from the garage interior. Storm wanted me to get the full picture)—the first thing I noticed was the wood. All of the paneling was dark, cherry wood. The banisters were thick on the huge stairs that went up, up, up, in a cornered spiral. There was a long hallway and open doors into many rooms. We passed a living room with a tv, a game room, a huge kitchen, another hall… ("That leads to the cafeteria, public bathrooms, and classrooms—the front is mostly the home," Storm said. "The back is where the school really begins.")

And at a door, Storm set my bag down. "I'm going to have someone take these to your room," she said. "But for right now, you have your meet and greet with Professor Xavier."

"I've met him already."

"Formalities, really. This is different." She knocked on the door and nodded for me to put my stuff down. She opened the door, peaked her head inside, and said, "She's here."

"Come in, Joan!" called the Professor's voice.

Storm opened the door fully, gently pushed me inside, and shut it.

"Um, hi," I said awkwardly.

"Have a seat, Joan," Professor Xavier sat behind a desk littered with thick, dusty books. He folded his hands and smiled benevolently at me. "How are you liking the academy?"

"I can't believe its real," I admitted.

"I hope one day you'll come to think of it as your home—a safe place, where you can be yourself," the Professor handed me a piece of paper. "This is your room number and when mealtimes are. We can talk about your official class schedule in a few months—agreed?"

"Agreed. And I wanted to ask about getting a job in town."

"We'll discuss that," he nodded, "I am hesitant to let students leave campus alone, but we can arrange for you to have a permit if there is work involved. I admire that you'd want to work—many students your age would rather wait to get into the workplace."

"I doubt my parents are going to enjoy paying for this school for another two years till I graduate," I winced. "Best to get started on the bills early."

"Ah," Xavier nodded.

"So you read minds?" I questioned.

"I was hoping you picked that up," Xavier smiled. "Tell me what you do."

"I think you already know, right?"

"I can if you want me to. Let me rephrase. Do you remember when you were first aware of your abilities?"

My stomach felt suddenly queasy. "Aware? You mean I've always had them?"

"It's not something you catch. It's something you are born with. But sometimes you are either unaware of what you have, or a primal instinct kicks in when natural occurrences affect your mutation."

For as long as I could remember, nothing stood out to me like Timmy's death. I'd never seen a grievous injury. I never really watched TV. I had never gotten a scab or a bloody knee from a fall. It wasn't until Tim got hurt that those 'instincts' felt the need to arise. The sense flooding me all at once was too much, and Timmy paid the price for it.

Professor Xavier heard my thoughts in a flash. He shut his eyes briefly, and then looked at me squarely with such a tenderness that I, for a moment, felt happy that he had read the memory to save me the trouble of explaining when I'd first felt like a mutant.

"No child," he said slowly, "Should ever have gone through what you did." He opened his hand, palm up, and held it across the desk. Hesitantly, I put my hand in his. He squeezed it, and with the other, patted it like an affectionate grandpa. "You've been very kind for allowing me into your thoughts. Let me remind you this is a place where you will not be judged. "

…

…

* * *

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